R. Salvatore - The Ancient

“The water supply is inexhaustible,” Cormack reported with a shrug before Gaivno could even inquire, as if to ask of Giavno why they bothered to bring him to these meetings. His only oversight was that of supplying water and fish, after all.

“And the fish?”

“The lake is full of them. They come to our hidden pond to feed, and are not so hard to catch.”

“Triple the catch,” Father De Guilbe unexpectedly interjected.

“Father?” Cormack asked.

“Triple-at least,” the man answered. “Our barbarian enemies will not relent, but they will pay too heavy a price to continue throwing themselves at our wall, I am sure. They will look for other ways to strike at us, and if they come to understand that we have this inexhaustible resource at our disposal, they might try to interrupt it. That, we cannot have.”

“Yes, Father,” Cormack said.

“On your travels to the pond, do you look in on our guests?” De Guilbe asked.

Cormack shrugged noncommittally.

“You are not prohibited from doing so,” Father De Guilbe prompted.

“Sometimes,” Cormack admitted.

“And it is as was described here?”

“They will not eat,” Cormack admitted, and the floodgates opened then. “They grow weak. There is no bend in them, Father. They will not recant their beliefs and embrace ours-not at the price of their very lives-”

“Cordon Roe,” Father De Guilbe interrupted, aiming the remark at Brother Giavno, who nodded, and Cormack grimaced at the reference.

If De Guilbe could see that apt analogy, then why would he insist on keeping the Alpinadorans as prisoners? For the end result would be their deaths or continued misery-how could it be otherwise?

Cormack wanted to shout those questions at these two monks, but the door swung open and the same monk who had just left to fetch the burned Alpinadoran and bring him to the dungeon burst in.

“A messenger!” he cried, clearly out of breath. “At the front gate. A messenger from our enemies approaches.”

“Bring him in?” Brother Giavno asked of De Guilbe, who thought about it for a few heartbeats, then shook his head.

“No, he will learn too much of our inner defenses,” the leader decided. “Let us go to him and greet him at the wall instead.”

He started out immediately, Giavno beside him, and Cormack and the others, having not been ordered to stay behind, swept into their wake.

As soon as he climbed the ladder to the parapet above the chapel’s gate, Cormack realized he was looking at one, if not the, leader of the barbarians of Yossunfier. The man was a shaman, obviously, for he wore the same ornamental necklaces as Milkeila, only grander by far, with his loose clothing decorated with shells and other trinkets, so that they rattled with his every step. He was old, well into his sixth decade of life, at least, and Milkeila had told Cormack enough about Alpinadoran society for him to understand that age was no small matter in the hierarchy of the tribes.

“I am Teydru,” he said, his voice clear and strong, and Cormack sucked in his breath, for he had indeed heard that name before, and knew then that he was standing before the absolute spiritual leader of Milkeila’s people.

“You come uninvited to this place, Teydru,” Father De Guilbe replied rather curtly. It seemed even more snappish and stilted due to the man’s lack of command of the common Alpinadoran language.

“You have three of my people,” Teydru went on, unrattled.

“Four,” De Guilbe corrected, and that seemed to shake the man just a bit. “And all of them alive only through the holy gifts of Blessed Abelle. Only through our work and healing powers.”

“Better they had died, then,” said Teydru, and out of the corner of his eye, Cormack caught De Guilbe’s silent sneer.

“Leave this island,” De Guilbe said.

“Return to us our brethren and we will be gone.”

“Your brethren are alive only through our efforts. They have felt the warmth and love of Abelle.”

“They embrace your faith?” Teydru asked, and his tone told the monks that he didn’t believe it for a moment.

“They begin to see the truth of Blessed Abelle,” De Guilbe countered cryptically.

To Cormack, there was great irony in that statement, for Father De Guilbe had proclaimed it without the slightest recognition that he, himself, would never begin to see the truth of anything other than Blessed Abelle. He was a man of complete intolerance demanding tolerance of others.

“Bring them forth to speak!” Teydru demanded, and De Guilbe crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at the man from on high.

“You are in no position to bargain,” the monk reminded the shaman. “You have attacked us three times, and three times you have been repelled. That will not change. Your people die at our walls, but we remain. You cannot win, Teydru.”

Unshaken, the shaman replied, “We will not leave. We will not stop attacking you. We will have our brethren.”

“Or what? Or you will all lie dead at the base of our walls?”

The chide didn’t have quite the effect De Guilbe was trying for, obviously, for Teydru squared his shoulders and proudly lifted his chin.

“If that is what our spirits demand,” he answered, not a quiver in his voice. “We will not leave. We will not stop attacking you. We will have our brethren.”

Cormack licked his lips and managed to pry his gaze from the imposing barbarian to glance at Father De Guilbe.

“We will kill you all,” the monk promised.

“Then we will die with joy,” said Teydru, and he turned and slowly walked away.

Father De Guilbe and Brother Giavno lingered for only a very short while before heading back to the father’s office.

“They cannot defeat us, so they try to bargain,” one young monk said hopefully to a group gathered not far from Cormack. “They will give up and leave soon enough.”

“They will not,” Cormack corrected him, and many sets of eyes turned his way. “They will fight us to the last.”

“They are not that foolish,” the man argued.

“But they are that faithful,” said Cormack, and he headed for the tunnels and the pond, and this time he paid more attention to the details of the four prisoners and the dungeon holding them as he passed.

Four tense days passed before the next attack, just when some of the brothers were beginning to whisper that the barbarians would besiege the chapel rather than assault it again.

No such luck, and the reason for the delay became apparent very quickly: that the barbarians had been training, and thinking, and better preparing. Nowhere was that more evident than when a pair of brothers went out into the throng, much as Faldo and Moorkris had done. The horde retreated from them at full speed, while others, farther away, launched a barrage of spears and rocks at the brothers that had them scrambling back toward the wall.

Pursuit came swift, and to the credit of the monks, they had maintained their concentration on the serpentine shield throughout, and so they were ready to counter with a dazzling fireball.

But those nearest Alpinadorans, obviously expecting the blast, quickly veered aside, and more impressively, they had come in wrapped in water-soaked blankets! A couple were wounded-only minimally-but suddenly the two poor brothers found themselves under brutal assault.

From the wall, Giavno, Cormack, and the others cried out for them to get back to safety, and run they did. They couldn’t outrun the spear volley, though.

Lightning bolts lashed out from the wall, along with a barrage of stones. Several barbarians fell, grievously wounded.

But so too did the brothers fall, side by side.

They would have survived their wounds, likely, had not the monks on the wall continued their barrage at the approaching horde. For the attackers wanted prisoners, that they could exact an exchange. They couldn’t get near the fallen brothers, though, in the face of that barrage, so they settled for the next best option.